


Leave My Body, Moving Up to Higher Ground

by triedunture



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Genderbending, Genderfuck, Het and Slash, M/M, Vessel Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-28 20:34:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/pseuds/triedunture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel must take a new vessel to return to earth, so he strikes a deal with a woman who isn't as willing as Jimmy had been. But Dean's in a bad way and Leviathan needs to be smote, so what else can he do?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leave My Body, Moving Up to Higher Ground

There is nothing comforting about limbo.

Because there is nothing in limbo. No sound, no light, no color. There is nothing to touch, not even air, and there is no one to speak to. There is only a blank stretch of still-somehow-being.

This is where angels go to die. Castiel knows because he's been here before. But always briefly, and always with the knowledge that he would return to Dean, that he _must_ return.

But this time is different. This time, he remains.

Castiel drifts, aching. A small window opens to the world he left behind, a rift in the nothingness designed to taunt him, he thinks. He receives a tiny glimpse of Dean Winchester, battered but still alive, still flanked by Sam and Bobby (stalwart Bobby, the bedrock of Dean's world; Cas thanks his lost Father for that man who keeps Dean from careening off the cliffs). For now, it is enough to know that Dean still _is_.

 _Dean._ Castiel reaches for that image of him, but he may as well be a million miles away. The picture fades, and all that's left is the dark. Time passes, or perhaps not; it's difficult to say when no guideposts exist.

Now, cocooned in nothingness, Castiel contemplates his slow approach to the edge of the universe. He will cease to be, and his memory of Dean Winchester will be gone, like it never existed.

Castiel uses his remaining time to cherish that memory; he clings to it though it pains him. He tells himself that, like the world, Dean survived without Castiel before, and he will continue to survive without him now.

He focuses his remaining energies on Dean, to look upon that face one final time. And what Castiel sees in his mind's eye chills him to the core. Bobby is gone, and Dean is lost. From the dark corners of the earth, Leviathan comes to feed, its tentacles slouching across the land in the form of men. They are powerful beyond imagining, and the fight has left Dean's spirit like water escaping a sieve. They surround him. They will consume him. They will end him.

 _No!_ Castiel's celestial voice shouts into the void, receiving no echo. _No...._

Castiel, what evil have you wrought?

 _I cannot allow this._ A burning flame, so nearly extinguished, flickers within.

How can you stop it? It is beyond you now.

 _I must return to earth._

Must you? How?

Ah, he is stymied. Castiel is vessel-less, torn from Jimmy Novak's body when he was sent to limbo, and he cannot walk the earth without a human shape.

 _There must be others._ He digs deep, pulling the heart from his core and using its dwindling power. He searches frantically, sifting through the population of earth, each person a grain of rice, tiny, tiny, all so similar. He is looking for that strange handful, those who share the blood he needs. A few he discounts immediately: Claire Novak, because he swore an oath, and he is done breaking oaths. A childless 85-year-old man, because his body is too frail for Castiel's purposes. A man who is getting married soon; he would never consent, Castiel is certain.

Then he finds the vessel. It is not perfect. Its blood is not pure like Jimmy Novak's had been, and its spirit leaves much to be desired, but it is the best Castiel can do.

There is a fragile connection between them, born of the blood. Castiel follows that red thread down to earth.

Back to the war.

Into the mind of the one who spells Castiel's last hope for redemption.

"Other shoe, other shoe, where's the other—? Aha!" Vera Hightower crouches down on her hands and knees, peering under the blue sofa. "How the fuck did you get there, shoe?" She stretches her arm along the floorboards and grabs the purple Chuck Taylor by the laces, shoving it on her left foot. "Traitor."

She snags her floppy hat, bright yellow raincoat, and shoulder bag off their hooks in rapid succession, flinging them about her person like a dervish. On the way out the front hall, she stops in front of the oval mirror, running her fingers through her wavy dark hair, fixing her bangs and smoothing flyaways. Vera reviews her reflection with a critical eye: a few wrinkles at the corners of her mouth, a little sallowness in her cheeks, but not bad for thirty-two. Her eyes look kind of tired, and her eyebrows are getting out of control, but she's had worse days.

She hopes.

"Mind over matter," she tells the mirror. She's out the door and locking up before she can consider it another second.

The bus is late, but it's always late. Vera waits inside the Lucite and steel bus shelter with an old woman wielding a pushcart. It looks like rain.

"Terrible weather we've been having," the old woman grouses after they've sat in silence for far too long.

Vera can't argue with that. She smiles thinly and wonders how full the bus will be. The crosstown is rounding the corner a few blocks down the street. Everything's going to be fine, Vera tells herself. Everything will work out.

The voice pricks at the back of her brain again, tingling there like the beginning of a headache. It's been coming off and on for the last few days. At first Vera told herself it was just stress. She has plenty to be stressed about, after all. But it's been getting worse, keeping her up at night. Sometimes when she's in the bathroom, the light will flicker like a brown-out, and when she asks her neighbor across the hall about it, sweet old Mrs. Wickish says she hasn't had any troubles with the electric, and maybe Vera should get a man in to take a look.

It's hard to put the whispers into words. It's more like a feeling pulsing through Vera's mind, separate and distinct from her own thoughts. There is a desperation there, a pleading that belongs to some other creature. It tells her—

Well. It sounds crazy. Vera has refused to even name it, not even to herself.

But sitting there, waiting for the bus to lumber up to the curb, Vera rubs her fingertips over her aching forehead and hears it as if from a long way away.

 _I need you, Vera. Please. Give yourself over to me._

Jesus Christ, she's going insane on top of everything.

"Hey," the old lady with the cart says softly, tearing Vera from her reverie. "You getting on this one?"

The bus rumbles in place, its door open and waiting, the driver frowning down at them. Vera shakes herself and gets up from the bench.

"Yeah, sorry."

She rides the bus to its second-to-final stop, a few blocks from the hospital. The rain has started and the walk to the front door is miserable. Vera pulls her hat down further and hunches inside her coat. The hospital lobby is freezing and smells too much like lemon candy.

They don't keep her waiting long. After a few minutes of staring at the floral wallpaper and the artfully fanned back issues of Redbook, the receptionist leads her into Dr. Singh's office. The doctor is rail-thin and Indian, but despite that, he reminds Vera of her father before the dementia. He's kind and patient, and he stands when she enters the room and shakes her one tiny hand in both of his.

She doesn't remember sitting. She doesn't even remember what Dr. Singh says, exactly. She hears the phrase "biopsy results" and "survival rates" and everything after that is a low buzz. And always in the back of her head is that insistent, wordless voice, saying, _Please, Vera. You are needed._

"Miss Hightower?" the doctor prompts.

Vera's eyes fly up to his. "What? Oh. Yes."

"This may take some time to process."

"Right."

"Do you understand the options as I've explained them?"

There's a tiny snow globe on the right corner of his desk. As Vera watches, the fat flakes of white begin swirling, though nothing has shaken it. The inhuman voice begs, somewhere between a machine and an animal: _Can't you feel me, Vera? Can't you?_

"Yes," Vera says slowly, her hands shaking in her lap.

"Do you have any questions for me?" Dr. Singh asks.

Vera watches the false snow fall back to the globe's plastic floor. "W-what about strange, um," she looks back up at the doctor, "symptoms?"

"Such as?"

"Do you think it could be making me hear things? See things?" Vera asks. "Things that aren't real?"

 _Vera, this is real. Sam and Dean need our help. Please._

Stop it, I don't know a Sam or Dean, Vera thinks, clutching her purse to her.

The doctor considers, his brow furrowing. "Have you been sleeping well? Eating regularly?"

"Would you be?" she retorts.

"Point." Dr. Singh uncaps a pen and notes something down on his legal pad. "I can refer you to a psychiatrist, and there are several support groups that work with our patients. Let me—"

 _No._

"No," Vera says. The doctor looks up at her, his face soft and concerned. Vera swallows, missing her dad. A flash of pain knifes through her from the thing inside; it has lost its father too, she realizes. "I don't want to get into that. Not now."

"Vera." He takes off his eyeglasses and folds them between his hands. "These services exist to help you. You don't have to shoulder this alone."

 _I'm here, Vera. You aren't alone. You know this._

Vera bites her lip and says nothing.

"Is there anyone who can stay with you?" the doctor asks. "I know you lost your mother some time ago, and your father's condition is not stable; do you have any other family? Friends?"

Vera jerks her head side to side. Something inside her is remembering its family, its friends. She sees images that don't make sense: masses of stars and light, wings stretching out across the sky, a man with green eyes turning a slow smile towards her, teeth as white as new highway lines. "None that— No. I don't."

Paperwork is pushed forward, propelled by the doctor's gentle hand. Decisions can wait, he says. She needs more time, he can see that. Try to get some rest, and the office will call her Monday morning. They'll go from there.

Vera is home before she realizes she has a text on her cell. It's her best friend, Isabella. **How'd it go?** Vera stares at the message, thinking. Isabella's just had a baby, a beautiful little boy. He's so perfect, and Isabella has been so busy with him. Rightfully so.

She types in **Good, everythings fine** and hits send. The light bulb in the hallway goes out with a loud PING. Vera jumps, startled. The voice keeps talking.

 _Please, you're my best chance._

"Leave me alone." She directs this to the air, not knowing where else to speak. Isabella returns her text: **OH thank god!**

 _I cannot. I'm sorry, but I cannot._

She kicks off her Chucks, crawls into bed and tries to ignore it, but it's getting stronger. "Go away," she mumbles into her pillow.

 _You don't understand. The fate of the world is at stake._

"This is crazy. I'm crazy."

 _No, you are chosen. And you are acknowledging me at last; this gives me hope._

"Stop, I just want to sleep. I just want to—" Tears are soaking into her pillow. Her throat hitches. She takes a deep breath, several, driving the air toward the back of her larynx just like they teach you in yoga class. It doesn't help.

 _Vera?_ The thing inside her trembles, like a muscle twitch in her mind. _My name is Castiel. I am an angel of the Lord._

"What?" Vera lifts her head up and looks around the room, half-convinced there's some hidden camera or someone outside her apartment window with some futuristic recording equipment, intent on driving her insane for ratings or YouTube hits. "What the—? An angel?"

 _Yes. I am on a mission to save the world from a great evil, and I need your help._

"But." Vera curls her hands over the top of her comforter, feeling very small and disconnected from what is happening, like it's a movie she heard about but never saw. "I don't believe in— Shit, I'm agnostic!"

 _I know. You were not my first choice for a vessel._ It sounds almost chagrined as it admits it.

Vera gropes for the right word: schizophrenia. That's what they think Joan of Arc had, right? Light-induced seizures resulting in religious delusions. But Joan of Arc was a crazy Jesus freak, and Vera hasn't been to church since her mom's funeral. She reaches for her cell phone on the bedside table; she needs to call Dr. Singh and tell him she needs a shrink after all.

 _You are not going mad,_ it tells her. _I swear it. You do not need doctors, and you do not need pills. You need only listen to me._

"If I listen to you, will you leave me alone?" she asks the void.

There is some hesitation before the answer comes. _Your decision will be yours to make, and if you refuse me, I will be forced to leave you and approach another._

"Fine. Then I refuse, whatever it is. Sorry. Don't let the door hit you on the way out of my brain, man." Vera shrugs expansively, sitting up in bed and letting the sheets pool into her lap.

 _You have not even listened to what I have to say._

"I don't care about what you have to say! I want you out of my head! I want to go to bed and get some goddamn sleep. I want—I want—"

 _You don't want to die._ It's thought so softly that Vera is nearly convinced it came from herself. But no, it's that foreign body in her, tentatively reaching out and holding her from the inside, an apology from within. _Of course you don't want to die._

Vera feels a tear scalding its way down her face. She blinks more away. "You know about the cancer?"

 _I know the entirety of your being, Vera._ It pauses, unsure. _This is a terrible time to ask you to make a sacrifice; so much sacrifice already lies before you. But I cannot delay._

"Never even smoked, you know?" Vera tips her head back, watching the ceiling pulse under the film of her tears. "It's just so goddamned unfair."

The angel—or whatever it is—says nothing.

Vera breathes and waits, but the voice doesn't go away. It stays there, merely existing in the back of her head, a low hum that says Castiel, Castiel, Castiel.

"Okay." Vera grits her teeth and nods, rocking forward on her haunches on the mattress. "Let's say you're real. That you're a fucking angel. What do you want from me? How can I possibly have anything to do with saving the world?"

 _It would take a very long time to explain. May I have your permission to show you instead?_

She blinks. "All right."

Suddenly Vera understands how a hard drive must feel. It's an instantaneous download of information, a flash of images like a movie on fast forward, the whole of history condensed down to a single second. The devil and hell and God and the angels, the demons and the saints, the humans, the earth, the Winchesters. The awful choice, the terrible mistake; Castiel shudders as it's recounted. Leviathan. The end of all things. Teeth. Blood. Blackness.

"Jesus Christ," Vera whispers, coming out of the vision as if swimming to the surface of a lake, gasping for air.

 _I need you. You are part of a bloodline that stretches back thousands of years. I can enter your body and walk the earth, but I need your consent._

"I need a drink." She slips out of bed, padding to the kitchen and pulling a bottle of the good stuff from the top of the fridge.

 _Vera, every moment we tarry is another moment I leave Sam and Dean vulnerable to attack. They are all alone now. I need to help them._

She can't find any tonic water in the fridge, so Vera sloshes the gin into the glass with a splash of lemon juice concentrate. "Listen, I just found out I'm inoperable and there's some weird old-timey monster that's about to eat the world and there's angels and a devil and two guys who I guess saved the world a bunch of times already, and how come no one's ever heard of them!?"

 _They do not desire fame._

"Yeah? Well, I desire a goddamned drink, so hold your horses, okay?" Vera gulps down the gin. It burns nicely. She taps her fingernails against the glass in thought. "All right, if you're really an angel, why can't you fly up to heaven and tell god what's going on, get some almighty power on your side?"

Castiel's voice, when it answers, is sad. _God has not been seen in Heaven for thousands of years._

"Oh, that's just perfect." Her lips curl cruelly and she stares up at her kitchen light. "Where the fuck has he been this whole time?"

 _He is mystery immortal. I do not pretend to know His reasoning._ The light dims inside its glass dome.

"Some god he's turning out to be," Vera mutters and pours another drink. "I think you should find some other sucker, Castiel. Maybe one that has more than a few months to live. I don't want to spend my last days on earth being ridden like a pony, if it's all the same to you."

There's a long silence where Castiel is working up to saying something; Vera can feel it building in the back of her mind. Finally, it says, _What if I took the cancer from you?_

Vera fights the urge to spit her drink all over her clean counter top. "Y-you can do that?"

 _Yes. Once I inhabit a body, it is healed of all injury and sickness so that I may move as freely as possible._

"Why didn't you say that at the very start!? Cured forever, right? It wouldn't come back? I wouldn't come down with something even worse? I know what usually happens when someone gets a wish granted."

 _I am not trying to deceive you. I would pluck the cancer from your lungs like rotted fruit from a tree. It would not return and I would not inflict you with further sickness, I promise you. However..._ It stalls.

"However, what?"

 _If your survival is your only motivation, you should know there is a very real danger that we will both be killed. Leviathan is powerful. I know of nothing save God that can stop it for certain. If I am slaughtered while using you as a vessel, you will perish as well._

"Huh." She tries to work this out in her head like a math problem. "So if I do nothing, cancer gets me in two, three months. Unless modern medicine takes a huge leap forward, in which case, according to you, the world ends anyway. Right?"

 _Yes._

Vera swallows the liquor and rolls it around her tongue, considering. "If I do it, how long will you be, uh, at the wheel?"

 _I'm not sure. As long as it takes to defeat the Leviathan._

She barks a laugh. "No dice, Tex! I've got a life, you know." She gestures around the apartment. "Okay, maybe I don't have any kids and my boyfriend dumped me, but I have a job! Bills to pay! A dad who needs round-the-clock care. I can't just drop everything indefinitely."

 _How much time can you give me?_

Vera rubs her chin in thought. "A day?"

 _It may take that long just to locate the Winchesters!_ For the first time since she's been able to hear him, Vera gets the sense that Castiel is panicking. _Please, I need more._

"Fine! God, I'm crazy for doing this." She throws her hands in the air with a sigh. "Three days. You return my body in perfect working order, cancer-free, and you can wear it to the big showdown. Just try not to get us killed. Deal?"

 _Three days._ Castiel considers. _Yes, we have an agreement._

"Great. What should I pack?"

 _Pack?_

"For the trip. Three days is an awful long time to go without changing your socks."

 _You won't need fresh clothing. Your physical form will exist in an ethereal state, free from disease and filth._

"So I'm going to be wearing the same thing every day? Like a cartoon character?" Vera looks down at her ratty sweater and bare feet. "I've got to change."

This is what it's like when an angel comes to the fore. Vera feels herself dropping back, down into herself, almost as if a giant, gentle hand is pushing her away from her nerves and muscles. Castiel takes them over, stepping into her place smoothly. And soon Castiel is the one seeing out of Vera's eyes, the one lifting her hand to examine the fine lines of her palm. The cancer is out of her; she can feel it leave as soon as Castiel steps into her shoes.

Vera settles into that dark back room, as if her brain is a drug store or something with a cramped space for the workers to take a lunch break. She watches Castiel as it—she doesn't think of the angel as a "he" or a "she" because its voice was so far removed from either—gets used to her body. It's tall for a woman, but slight, with dark brown hair cut in a severe line across her forehead and tumbling down her back.

 _Like trying on a coat for the first time, huh?_ she thinks.

Castiel freezes in its inspection of Vera's pale arm. "You can speak." It sounds astonished. It also sounds a lot more gravelly than Vera's normal voice, like how she might sound after a night of drinking and shouting.

 _Of course I can speak. Problem?_

"It's only that my last vessel was," it licks its newly acquired lips, "more of a silent passenger."

 _Well, excuse me! I'm not allowed to talk to myself?_

Castiel sighs, a low sound. "No, you may. I only worry this means you are not the match I had hoped for."

Vera surges forward then, standing tall until she is actually standing, back in control of her limbs and lungs. "Look, do you want my help or not?" she shouts.

 _Oh,_ Castiel thinks. _You can regain the body as easily as that?_

"Yeah, what of it?" Vera takes a deep breath: clear airways for the first time in a long time. Her heart is pounding. She's alive, alive, terribly alive.

 _This is going to be...complicated._

"Welcome to my world," Vera growls.

 _May I?_ Castiel reaches out to her again, and she begrudgingly lets it back into the driver's seat, slipping into the background once more.

"You must promise me not to do that at a critical moment," Castiel says. "This body is stronger when I control it." The angel moves to the writing desk in the corner and opens Vera's laptop.

 _Sure, okay._ Vera huffs mentally, wishing she had arms to cross over her chest. _So this last vessel you had, it was a guy?_ She saw him in that mental dump, the blue-eyed man in the beige coat. _Do you want to be called "him"?_

"If it simplifies things for you. Angelic beings are difficult for humans to understand."

 _Cool._ That's decided, then; she can stop thinking of him as an "it." Vera watches Castiel peck at the laptop for another moment before saying, _Um, do you want me to Google something for you, chief? You're killing me here._

"I need to find Sam and Dean, and the only way I can track them now is by following the trail of their battles."

 _You mean weird murders that've happened recently? Give me the controls. I got this one._ Vera shoves her way forward, and Castiel lets her take over.

 _Thank you,_ he thinks to her, warmth suffusing his voice.

Their first flight is too fast for Vera to feel motion-sick, but it doesn't fail to give her a whopping headache. Imagine one of those spinning carnival rides, then imagine it shooting you through space at an atomic level, and you get an idea of what flying with Castiel is like.

 _What, no peanuts?_ she asks when they touch down in a bar outside of Newark.

"You shouldn't be craving food," Castiel answers, concerned. "This body does not require sustenance while I am occupying it."

 _It was a— Never mind. You sure this is the place?_

Castiel strides across the smoke-filled room, and Vera catches a glimpse through his eyes: the reflection in the mirror behind the bar shows her body, dressed in her chosen outfit of purple sneakers, form-fitting jeans, and a loose yellow shirt underneath her motocross jacket. Good clothes for a fight, she figured. But despite the familiar apparel, she doesn't look like herself. It's Castiel behind her eyes, keeping her stone-faced.

"This is it," Castiel says, and Vera can feel his breath hitch. She looks through his eyes like a child standing on tip-toe and peeking into a window, and she sees the guy at the back of the bar who has caught his attention.

This is the same Dean from Castiel's memories, but he doesn't much resemble the man with the green eyes and the rare, wide smile. He's sitting alone at a table, drinking down a beer and hunching further into his leather jacket, but Vera can sense all the weight that Castiel is placing on this moment. There's a roil of feeling at the center of him, and she's buffeted by it all: shame, need, devotion. Vera is reminded of the first crush she had in sixth grade and how much bigger everything felt because of it.

 _Oh hell_ , she thinks at Castiel. _You have GOT to be kidding me!_

"What?" he asks, an off-hand remark, still wrapped up in the vision of Dean wiping the foam from the corner of his mouth. A stack of empty glasses glistens at his elbow.

 _"Save the world," my ass! This is what you came back to earth for, isn't it? Leviathan could swallow the whole continent and all you care about is seeing this guy again!_

"Vera, please be quiet. You are wrong."

 _I am not! You should feel what it's like on the inside right now, practically awash in little pink hearts and shit. It ain't coming from me, so it must be you._

"It is true that Dean and I share a kind of—camaraderie—that..." Castiel sighs. "Or at least, perhaps we once did." He shakes his head. "None of that matters now. Dean is a hero. He needs an ally, and I will have to suffice."

The man, Dean, gestures and says something at a passing waitress, who gives a noncommittal shrug and turns to another table. Dean barely avoids knocking over the stack of glasses with his unsteady hand, earning a glare from people at the table next to him.

 _Castiel, I'm sorry, but he doesn't look like a hero to me. He looks like some douchebag who needs a shave and an AA pamphlet. And another thing: how come no one's staring at you when you talk to yourself?_

"I have hidden us from humans for the time being. They cannot perceive me."

Vera can't hear what Dean's saying in the loud bar, but his pitch seems to get rougher, his hand drumming on the tabletop. The waitress scowls over her shoulder at him. A few of the other patrons are beginning to take an interest in the proceedings.

 _What are you waiting for? You came all this way to find him. Go talk to him._

Castiel hesitates. "I am not sure what to say. When last we met—" He doesn't need to tell Vera. She knows. Shit went down. People got hurt.

 _It's a fresh start, Cas. If I'd gone through a fraction of what this guy's been through, I'd be happy as hell to have a friend come back from the dead._

Cas falters, and something inside him keens in pain. Vera prods at it, curious.

 _Castiel? What's wrong?_

"I have not returned permanently," he says. "Once I leave your body at the end of these three days, I will be returned to the Void."

 _Huh? The Void?_

"The end of an angel. Limbo. The nowhere place." Cas remembers that vast, unyielding coldness, and Vera shivers. "I have no other vessel and, more importantly, no connection with the Heavenly Host. I have already used much of my remaining strength in reaching you, and without the power of Heaven at my back, I will not last long. When I leave this body, I will cease to be."

 _But— Castiel, I—I didn't know. I'm so sorry._

Castiel shakes his head. "Do not apologize; I cannot in good faith ask more of you, and this one chance is more than I deserve. I only hope that Dean will understand. When I leave again." He watches the man at the other side of the room, his eyes tracking his every jerky move.

Now Dean is struggling to his feet, shouting something incoherent. A set of burly men—regulars, if their logo caps are anything to go by—flank him, grabbing him by the elbows and dragging him toward the back door, hollering all the way.

 _Well, if you don't want to see him beaten to a pulp, now would be a good time to pop in._

Castiel blinks and they are outside. The alley is cold and damp, and the rain hasn't let up much. One of the beefy enforcer-guys has Dean against the brick wall of the building, a fist pulled back and aimed at his nose. Dean is staring at it, not even raising a hand in defense. Beaten before the blow even falls.

 _Fuck, stop him!_ Vera cries, and Castiel does. He steps forward, grabbing the man's huge wrist between his now-willowy fingers, still tipped in Vera's blue nail polish. The man turns, almost laughs.

"We got to settle this clown, darling. Give us a second."

Castiel pulls him off Dean with the strength of five linebackers. The guy flies back into the garrison of trash cans, landing in a puddle of murky rainwater. The second guy gives Castiel a look and takes off down the alley as fast as his feet will take him.

Dean wipes the rain from his lips and looks at Castiel, breathing heavily with wasted adrenaline. Vera can feel the angel seizing up under that gaze.

 _Quit staring and say something_ , she urges.

But before the angel can even open his mouth, Dean is speaking. "Not used to getting saved by the damsel. 's usually the other way 'round," he says. A crooked smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

Castiel swallows, silent, his eyes impossibly wide. He turns and walks swiftly down the alleyway, away from Dean. When he hears Dean's footsteps following, he breaks into a run.

"Hey!" Dean shouts after him, but when he rounds the corner, he's already in flight, and Dean finds nothing but empty air when he reaches the street.

Vera watches through her rented-out eyes with Castiel. They look down at Dean from a neighboring rooftop: a lost drunk stumbling down the pavement, searching for his rescuer.

"He didn't recognize me," Castiel whispers.

 _Well, you have changed a lot since he last saw you. Boobs, for one thing. And a better wardrobe, to be honest._

"I just assumed...." The angel looks up at the black sky, closing his eyelids against the raindrops. "I thought he'd know me anywhere."

There's a strange pain that worms its way through the black room; Vera can feel it slithering around in the dark. It's wet and cold like regret.

 _Oh, Castiel_ , she sighs.

"I know it's foolish; Dean is only human. He doesn't have the sight I have. And yet—" Castiel bites his lip and hangs his head.

 _You kind of hoped he was special somehow, 'cause you think he's different._

"He is different." Castiel's voice is firm. It brooks no argument.

 _This isn't just affection for a comrade, man. You're pretty far gone._

"Do not push me, Vera." He tracks Dean's weaving progress down the block. "It was unwise to approach Dean. I should reveal myself to both Winchesters simultaneously. We don't have the luxury of time."

 _You mean the luxury of sucking it up and facing Dean alone._

Castiel doesn't rise to the bait. On the street below, a squat beige sedan comes out of the pouring rain and pulls up to the curb beside Dean. The driver calls to him, and Dean staggers toward the passenger door.

 _Follow that car?_

"Yes. I doubt my sudden appearance in the backseat would be welcome."

The hotel room is dingy and stale-smelling, even through the filter of Castiel's senses. Vera wonders why heroes would crash in such a pit of a place. Surely if you saved enough people you'd have plenty of offers to stay in nice, cozy bungalows or guest houses. Maybe the Winchesters like it better this way.

Castiel is still holding back in invisible-land, just watching them. Sam, the taller one, is shouting at Dean. It sounds like this drinking thing has gotten worse lately; at least, that's the crux of Sam's argument. Vera is inclined to agree with him, given what little she's seen.

 _So they're brothers, huh?_ Vera winces at Sam's "you always do this, Dean" remark, and again at Dean's "get off my fucking back, Sammy" rejoinder. _You sure they're not married?_

"Many outsiders have asked that same question," Castiel muses. He watches Sam run his hands through his hair, grinding his teeth in frustration. Something twinges inside Vera's body, somewhere in her chest. "How I have missed them."

 _All right, so let's do what we came to do,_ she tells Castiel, pushing at him with her mind. _Like a band-aid. Quick as you can._

"I—I hardly know where to begin."

 _Fine. I'll start you off._

Vera shoulders her way to the forefront, wresting control from Castiel despite his protests. As soon as she's back in her body, there's a loud whoosh of displaced air and she's standing in front of the brothers, plain as day. Sam and Dean drop their verbal spat in favor of staring.

Then, as fast as she stepped forward, Vera falls back, letting Castiel clamber behind her eyes once more. _You're welcome,_ she says dryly.

"That's her, that's the girl," Dean chokes out, his .45 already out and aimed. Sam is more cautious, raising his empty palms to show he means no harm. Yet.

"Hey." Sam raises his eyebrows at Castiel, an attempt at sincerity that Vera thinks may actually be real. "You helped Dean back at the bar, right? Thank you."

Castiel stands there stiffly in his borrowed body, still silent, his gaze shifting between the two brothers.

"Yeah, thanks. So what do you want?" Dean barks.

 _Go ahead._ Vera nudges him.

Castiel opens his mouth and speaks with his new voice, low and tight. "Hello, Dean."

There's a long moment where nothing happens. Dean slowly drops his gun, squinting at the motionless woman who knows his name. Vera shifts inside anxiously, almost ready to pop in and take over again, wanting so badly to blurt out "it's Castiel, it's the angel, he's back, now let's kick some ass" but Castiel quiets her with a soft thought that says _patience_.

Dean's mouth works open and closed a few times before he manages to say, in a voice broken by more than booze, "Cas?"

Sam reels back a step as if struck psychically, his eyes wide. "Oh my god. Cas, it that you?"

"It is." Castiel stares down at the floor. He's perfectly still, but on the inside something jerks and trembles as if itching to get away. Vera feels the brush of feathers in her mind.

 _Your wings._ She reaches out and calms them like you would a nervous pet, and Castiel sends her his thanks.

Vera gets a flash of memory from Castiel, of Sam refusing his embrace once, long ago. So she's a little shocked when Sam Winchester bounds forward and grabs Castiel in a spine-crushing bear hug. Vera's body is dwarfed by Sam's, completely enveloped by it. Vera almost panics, but Castiel tells her not to worry, that Sam won't hurt them.

"Holy crap, Cas, am I glad to see you!" Sam laughs at the ceiling and then holds Cas out at arm's length, looking at his new face, which is still expressionless as granite. "Sorry, I just— Things have been so— Oh my god!" he repeats. "You look so, uh, different! How did—?"

Dean interrupts him with a quick, "Sam. Give us a minute, would you?"

Sam turns to look at his brother, who hasn't moved or cracked so much as half a smile. Dean's gun is now tucked away in his waistband, but his fingers seem to itch for it, twitching at his sides.

 _Why is he so angry?_ Vera asks. _I mean, yeah, he was pissed at you before, but right before you—you know—died, he forgave you. Didn't he?_

Castiel doesn't answer her, just shifts away from Sam, gives him a short nod. Sam crinkles his brow at Dean, and they share a silent exchange that means "you better not do anything stupid; don't worry, just go." And so Sam goes, banging out the door a little louder than necessary, the vestiges of their fight still clinging to him.

Then Dean and Cas are alone, or as alone as they can be with Vera riding shotgun. She reaches out for the part of Castiel she had comforted a moment ago, not because it's getting twitchy again, but because she wants to make sure it's still there. In case they need to make a quick getaway. This Dean guy may be the end-all, be-all for Cas, but she's still not convinced he's got all his marbles.

As it is, Dean is staring at them—Castiel—with the weirdest look in his eyes. Vera can't tell if he's about to throw a punch or start crying his head off. The guy takes a few steps forward. Cas stands taller, unused to being more than an inch or two shorter than Dean. Vera can feel his discomfort.

Dean crowds into Castiel's space, looking down into his eyes as if all his answers are in there somewhere. "How do I know for sure it's you?" he asks in a low voice.

Cas takes a deep breath and whispers, "Chastity." Vera doesn't get what he means by that, but then a flood of memory overtakes her: the strip club, the hooker, the last night on earth. A moment he shared with Dean, a happy one.

Dean shakes his head. "Any angel could know about that. You could be a spy from heaven."

"I'm not," Castiel says, a simple statement, no heat of insistence behind it. He lays a hand on Dean's shoulder, and suddenly Vera gets a quick flash of something—some place—truly awful. This is Castiel's first memory of Dean, except it doesn't look like Dean in that blood-soaked pit of fire and pain. It's some other creature, a slavering, crazed animal that Cas gripped tight and folded into himself like a priceless gift. There's too much mixed in with this memory, not just the burning and the hurt, but the overwhelming sense of duty and pride that Castiel experienced. It's like witnessing ten thousand weddings and funerals all at once.

 _Stop it, make it stop!_ Vera begs, screaming inside Castiel's mind. _We get it, you can stop!_

And Castiel does. Dean comes out of the vision first, blinking rapidly, his cheeks lined with tears. He touches his own face and examines his wet fingertips. "I saw—" He swallows. "I saw. Fuck, it's really you, Cas?"

"Yes, Dean, it's me," Cas says, and if his voice isn't as torn up as Dean's, Vera doesn't know what is.

Dean takes a small step forward, then stops himself. He's raking his eyes over Castiel, lingering on the curves. "You're a chick now."

 _He's a quick one._

Cas ignores her. "I needed a vessel. This one was...available."

 _For a limited time. Don't forget that._

Dean's gaze comes to rest on Cas's new face. "You kept the eyes," he murmurs. "Still blue."

"This body shares a bloodline with my last vessel. Some traits were bound to be similar."

"Yeah. Yeah, guess so." Dean stares at his lips a moment longer, then ducks his head. "Uh, a few weeks ago, the Leviathan, and Bobby— He's—" His throat works hard.

"He's gone. I know." Castiel moves closer into Dean's space, still hesitant to get too near. "I am so sorry. I should have been there."

Dean laughs, but it's not a joyful sound. It's only broken. "Yeah, well, you were busy being dead."

And there's that guilt again, that black wave that washes over Vera inside Castiel. Everything that's happened is his own fault; Cas truly believes this. Vera pounds on that intangible door between them, furious.

 _Get a grip! You're here now, that's what fucking matters._

Cas shakes his head, long hair spilling down his shoulders. "I wish I could do something to lessen your pain." His eyes track along the motel table, where empty cans and bottles lie in messy, sticky heaps.

Dean follows his gaze. "Oh. That." He shrugs. "A guy's got to sleep somehow."

This admission stabs at Castiel, and Vera receives a glimpse into another memory: Castiel watching unseen from the corners of countless hotel rooms, standing guard over Dean as he breathed and nightmared, twisted up in the sheets. He would press his fingers to Dean's forehead and bestow upon him a dreamless peace. All he wants now is to give that to Dean again. But it wouldn't be enough.

Dean wipes his face with both palms and breathes deep to clear his nose. "Anyway. You're back." He nods as if agreeing with himself. "That—that's a good thing. We could use all the help we can get on this one." He reaches out and lays a hand on Cas's slim shoulder, his fingers kneading into the black leather of Vera's jacket. Cas returns the gesture, winding an arm across Dean's neck, a one-armed embrace that is lacking in all the enthusiasm Sam displayed. But then Dean's eyes catch on Cas's lips again, and his face softens for a moment, just enough for Castiel to see the sudden desire there.

"Dean," he says, quiet, soft, disbelieving. "You—"

Dean doesn't let him finish, just leans forward and brushes his lips over Cas's. It's a powerful jolt that stops them—all three of them—in their tracks. And then Dean is groaning and pressing closer, kissing his way into Cas's mouth, licking up the taste of him, finding that solace he needed so badly—

"Whoa!" Vera's eyes fly open and she shoves Dean away, strong with the rush of adrenaline. Dean stumbles back a pace, catching himself against the rattling dresser, his eyes wide in confusion.

"I didn't sign up for this! This is _not_ part of the fucking deal!" she yelps.

"What the...?" Dean murmurs.

Inside, Cas is calling, _Vera!? Vera, give me control of your body right now! You swore you wouldn't do this at a crucial moment!_

"When you said 'crucial moment' I thought you meant 'saving the world' crucial, not 'we're about to get boned by some dude you don't even know' crucial!" she shouts at thin air. Dean looks at her like she's crazy, which, really, is not far off the mark.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean asks, but Vera ignores him. Castiel is too loud, anyway.

 _These are unforeseen circumstances. I did not know—_

"How could you not know, Castiel!?" Vera yells at nothing. "Look at him! Just look at him, for god's sake." She flings a hand in Dean's direction, indicating his reddened cheeks and lips, his growing look of understanding.

Dean licks his lips and his face hardens. "So you're the new vessel."

"Vera Hightower. Nice to meet you. Now would you mind not sticking your tongue in my mouth?" Vera backs away, putting the rickety motel chair between her and Dean, bracing her hands on the armrests like it's a shield.

Dean takes a step forward, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Where's Cas? What did you do to him?"

 _Vera, tell him I am all right. Please. He worries._

"Oh, Castiel is still in here." Vera taps the side of her head. "He won't shut up, but otherwise he's fine."

The hunter regards her closely, then ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck. "The last vessel Cas had never, uh, did this," he says.

"Well, things are different now." Vera glances around the room and spies a ragged trench coat, folded at the head of one of the hotel beds. She recognizes it from Castiel's memories. Inside, he shudders, seeing it too.

 _Dean_ , he whispers. _Oh, Dean._

Dean swallows and jams his hands in his jean pockets. "I'm sorry, I didn't know you were still in there, okay? Look, can you put Cas back on the line?" he asks, and he sounds so torn up, Vera feels all her righteous indignation leak out of her.

"Sure. Just don't—"

Dean shakes his head. "Don't worry. I won't—" He mimes grabbing an invisible lover in his arms. "I promise."

Vera steps back and lets Cas slip into the driver's seat. He takes over her body smoothly, standing a little straighter, holding himself with a more military bearing. He breathes deep and opens his eyes.

"Dean," he says, "I'm sorry."

"'s okay." Dean steps close, raises a hand as if to touch Cas's cheek, then drops it. "It's fine. You're back, that's what's important."

"You kissed me," Cas says softly. It's not an accusation, it's not an admonishment. It's awed.

Dean laughs, and it's bitter. "Been doing a lot of stupid shit lately. You show up looking like that after I had a liquid dinner, things got out of hand, you know what I mean? Let's just— Let's focus on killing these fucking face-stealers, okay?" He sits down on the edge of the bed with a heavy sigh, the springs creaking beneath him.

 _Castiel, hey_ , Vera says from inside. _You're not letting him off the hook on this one, are you?_

Cas doesn't respond to Vera and instead takes a seat next to Dean, his slim hands laced together between his knees. A visceral yearning burns its way up his throat; Vera can feel it like it's her own.

 _He kissed you. He knew it was you. Castiel, are you listening?_

"Have you discovered any weaknesses in the Leviathan?" Cas asks, his borrowed voice cold.

Dean nods, shifting himself into business mode. "Borax burns them. Doesn't kill them, but slows them down. And if they're slowed down enough, you can decapitate them, keep the head away from the body so they can't regenerate."

"This is excellent news. We will need to disarm Leviathan's tentacles—its foot soldiers on the front lines—in order to strike at its heart."

"We met the head honcho. Guy named Dick. Politician. They stole his face to work some bad behind-the-scenes mojo, I guess," Dean mumbles.

Cas frowns. "No, that is not right. Leviathan would not reveal its center to you. The whole point of this creature is to keep its vast network moving while protecting its true heart."

"Well, if Dick ain't the real big bad, what is?" Dean rubs a hand over his face, groaning in pure exhaustion. There's a soft knock on the door, and Sam pokes his head into the room.

"Hey. Everything all right?" Sam asks. "Have you shown Cas the numbers yet?"

"What numbers?" Cas looks between them.

"Bobby wrote them on my hand before he—" Sam glances over at Dean, whose jaw is ticking rhythmically. "—well, anyway, this is what he wrote."

Cas stares down at the laptop Sam has opened before him. A photo of Sam's hand is displayed there, along with Sam's notes on what the sequence could mean.

"It's got to be something important, so I was thinking maybe a security code or a call sign or—" Sam points to the screen, running his finger down the bulleted list.

"Or coordinates," Cas whispers, reading the next item.

"Yeah, except we ran those numbers and unless the Leviathan is couch-surfing through Asia, it points to the middle of nowhere. No warehouse, no factory, nothing it could be using for its whole take-over-the-world plan," Dean says, huffing in impatience.

"Show me," Cas says, shuffling through the papers on the battered hotel desk. "Show me where it leads."

 _This is boring_ , Vera sighs. _I thought we'd be fighting monsters by now._

"Vera, I understand your enthusiasm to see this through to the end, but could you please remain quiet for a moment?" Cas calls up at the ceiling.

Sam glances sidelong at his brother. "Um. Who is she, I mean, he—Cas talking to?"

Dean shrugs. "Seems like this meat-suit comes with its own peanut gallery. Cas's vessel likes to chat." He rolls his eyes.

 _Hey, I saw that! Tell him I saw that! And what does he mean, meat-suit?_

"Dean, Vera can perceive what you say and do. Can you keep the mocking to a minimum? She is...excitable."

 _Oh, I'll show you excitable._ Vera surges forward, but Castiel holds firm.

"Do not fight me," he grits between his teeth.

"Oooookay," Sam says slowly. He pulls a map from his stack of papers and hands it to Cas. "Here it is. Backwoods Wisconsin, close to Beaver Lake."

Cas studies the map, a frisson of fear passing through him. Vera stirs.

 _What is it?_ she asks.

"When Leviathan was contained within me," Cas says, "I could feel it pulsing inside, whispering. Telling me it needed water. That it thirsted."

"Is that why you headed for the reservoir when you—?" Dean pulls a face. "Went all inky?"

"It reaches its victims through the water, doesn't it?" Castiel looks up at the Winchesters. "It feels safe there. That is where it will be hiding. Where its heart will lie."

"So what are we waiting for?" Dean says.

"How about a plan?" Sam snaps. "What if Cas is right, and we show up at this lake and find the real boss Leviathan? How are we going to kill it, Dean?"

"A shit ton of borax and a knife oughta help." Dean steels his jaw and slams the laptop shut.

Castiel sits in the backseat of the car—not the Impala; Sam explains that they had to hide it, and Dean clenches his fists on the little Toyota's steering wheel throughout his brother's retelling.

"You miss it," Cas says softly, and Dean says, "Damn right I do."

"So much has changed. It would be good to have the familiar things return to you," the angel says, catching Dean's gaze in the rear view mirror.

"You're back. That's something," Sam points out.

Cas doesn't answer. They've been driving all day, and he's fatigued in a way angels should never be. He stares out the window, surprised for a moment to see his new reflection staring back at him before he can look to the rolling farmland beyond. Silent guilt resounds deep in his grace.

 _You have to tell them, Castiel_ , Vera pleads. _They need to know you're not going to stick around in my body forever._

Cas drags a blue-tipped fingernail through the condensation on the window, an aimless sigil, and says nothing.

 _Fine, do what you want. See if I care._

After a few more hours, Sam falls asleep in the passenger seat, snoring lightly. Dean drives on through the night, no radio, just the periodic whoosh of passing cars going in the opposite direction. He meets Cas's eyes in the mirror a few times before finally clearing his throat.

"So how'd you come back to life this time?" he asks. "Another apparent act of god?"

"I don't think so," Cas says. He looks down at his hands folded in his lap. "I'm beginning to wonder if He—" The angel shakes his head. "It is pointless to wonder. I can only tell you that this time, I came back to earth through force of will alone."

"No help from the Host?"

"I cannot hear the voices of the angels." Cas considers. "I am either cut off from Heaven, or my brothers are gone."

"Gone? Gone where?"

"I don't know."

"Well, you're just full of helpful information, ain't ya?" Dean says.

"If I knew more, I would tell you." Cas looks out the window. "I would tell you everything."

 _Liar_ , Vera says, quiet in his head.

They drive in silence for a long time before Cas gathers the courage to say, "You keep the coat with you."

Dean shifts in the driver's seat, his shoulders working as if to ease a knotted muscle. "Yeah. We thought maybe it could, I don't know, act as a beacon if you ever came back." He pauses. "Did it?"

"No. Vera helped me look up the reports of the Jersey Devil attacks. That's how I knew where to find you."

"Oh. Guess I can toss it, then."

"I suppose you could." Cas's voice strives for nonchalance.

 _Oh my god_ , Vera groans. _This is worse than middle school. Cas, he kept the stupid coat because he's head over fucking heels for you! Don't you see that?_

"Vera, please. Calm yourself," Cas whispers.

Dean's head shoots up, his eyes fixed in the rear view. "Little Miss Vessel's got something to say?"

"She has many—" Cas adjusts his seat belt between his breasts. "—opinions she wishes to voice."

"Any about me?"

 _Let me out for five minutes, Castiel, and I'll tell him exactly what I think of—_

"A few."

"All bad?" Dean swings his eyes up to the mirror again, a ghost of his old smile crinkling them at the corners. "I guess we got off on the wrong foot. Can you tell her again I'm sorry?"

 _Two seconds, Cas, that's all I need. Come on. He needs to hear this just as much as you do._

"She accepts your apology," Cas says.

 _That's it. I'm taking over!_

"No, Vera—" Cas gasps, and when Dean darts his eyes over his shoulder to look into the backseat, it's no longer the angel Castiel sitting there on the sensible upholstery, but a sullen thirty-something woman with a fiery glare.

"Just so you know," Vera says, "Castiel's lease expires tomorrow at sundown."

"Wait, what are you talking about?" Dean growls.

"We have a deal. He gets to ride along in my body, but only for a few days. As soon as this Leviathan thing is dealt with, he's vacating the premises."

 _Stop it, you don't understand what you're doing!_ Castiel shouts, throwing himself against the door that separates them.

"Then what happens to him?" Dean asks, his hands white on the wheel. "He got another vessel lined up?"

 _Vera, don't—_

Vera shakes her head. "After this is over, he goes back to being dead. He showed me the place where he'll be sent. It sucks. It's cold." She purses her lips.

"So don't let him die!" Dean says. "You're his vessel, you can—!"

"I can't let him stay in my body forever. I'm sorry, but I can't. I just— I'm not a hero, I didn't ask for this! The last guy, he _prayed_ to be a vessel, but I never even believed in angels and all that shit." Vera wipes a hand across her face, smudging a tear down her chin. "This is Castiel's last night on earth, Dean. That's the way it has to be. Do you understand?"

The silence stretches in the car, just the hum of the road beneath the wheels. Castiel speaks inside Vera's mind, his voice strained.

 _You should not have done that._

Dean swallows and cracks his neck side to side. "Yeah, I get it. Listen, thanks for telling me the truth." He looks up at the mirror, his eyes red. "I need to talk to Cas now. Can you put him through?"

"Sure," Vera murmurs, allowing Castiel back into the fore. He sits stiffly in the seat, feminine features drawn into a tight frown.

"Dean—" he says.

"Couldn't have mentioned that little tidbit?" Dean's voice is gruff, unsteady. He keeps his eyes on the road. "Guess Hallmark doesn't make a 'heads up, I'm dead soon' card, huh?"

Castiel's throat tightens. "I didn't think it mattered."

"Didn't—!" Dean grits his teeth and laughs through them, low and tired. "You are. Such. A piece of work." He glances over at Sam, who has stopped snoring and is so clearly pretending to sleep that Dean rolls his eyes. "We should stop for the night. Get prepped for the big showdown tomorrow. Sam? Want to find a place?"

Sam makes a show of blinking awake and stretching his long limbs as far as the cramped car will allow. He pulls out his Blackberry and sets to work. Cas remains quiet.

The motel is appropriately seedy. The sign out front is missing a few neon letters, but it's supposed to spell out Riverside Inn. As Cas climbs out of the backseat, he hears Sam whispering to his brother outside the check-in office.

"Two rooms will be better for tonight," Sam insists. "Come on, Dean. It sounds like you and Cas still have a lot of stuff to hash out."

"Me and Cas ain't got nothing else to talk about, Sammy. Even if we're lucky and we all survive this fight, he won't stick around long. Nothing I say can change that." Dean stares out at the road, not meeting his brother's worried gaze.

"Then at least say goodbye." Sam ducks his head, drags a hand through his long hair. "We don't get that chance very often, to say goodbye before someone's gone."

 _He's right_ , Vera hums in Castiel's mind.

"I do not want to speak to you right now," Castiel says, and slams the car door.

 _Cas, I was just trying to help._

The angel doesn't answer her. Sam approaches, a room key dangling from a giant red plastic tag in his hand.

"Hey, you and Dean are in room 5, all right? I'll be across the way in 7 if you need me," he says. Cas supposes Sam won the argument with his brother, then. He nods, distracted by the sight of Dean prowling along the edge of the parking lot, kicking stones.

"And Cas?" Sam shrugs. "I just want to say, after everything that's happened—"

Castiel cuts him off. "Sam, I am sorry for what I did to you. You of all people did not deserve the pain I caused."

"Hey, no, that's not what—" Sam sighs. "I meant, thank you. For trying to pull me out of hell. For bringing me back."

Cas blinks. "But I—I failed you."

"I know. But you tried. Which was more than anyone else in Heaven did," Sam says with a slow smile. "And I know why you did it, Cas." He shoots a look over at his brother, who is struggling with the strap on his duffel bag. "You didn't want Dean to be alone."

The angel swallows, his wide blue eyes darting along the ground, his woman's face crumpled in misery. "Yes," he says in a small voice. "But my arrogance hurt you in ways I cannot comprehend."

Sam's smile fails and he presses his fingernails into the scarred palm of his hand. "Yeah. We—we've all done things we wish we could take back. Don't worry. I'm tougher than I look."

"Hey!" Dean calls across the parking lot. "Are we sleeping out here? What's the hold up?"

The grin returns to Sam's lips. "Goodnight, Cas. And good luck."

"Thank you. That means...so much, Sam."

 _Bye, Sam_ , Vera says, though Castiel does not relay her message.

Dean keys open the door marked 5, and Cas trudges across the parking spaces to join him. There are two beds in the room. The walls are covered in pink and green wallpaper. There is lamp shaped like a beaver on the console table.

 _Nice digs._ A pause. _Castiel, come on. Are you going to ignore me all night?_

Yes, Castiel thinks as clearly as he can. I am.

Dean sits at the foot of the bed nearest the door. His hands hang between his knees. "Sam thinks we should," he sniffs, a disgusted sound, "talk."

 _You should sit_ , Vera suggests. _You'll make him nervous, hovering like that._

Castiel does sit on the mattress next to Dean, mirroring his posture, but because he wishes to, not because Vera told him to, certainly not. "We could just sit here quietly, if you prefer," he says.

Dean snorts. "Just like the last time. Remember? Your first last night on earth? You just wanted to sit and contemplate fate or whatever."

"It was a better idea than yours," Cas reminds him. "I am certain that woman now spends much of her salary on therapy."

Dean laughs, a real one this time, not bitter or metallic but beautiful. His eyes shine like they had when Castiel first remade him: green and gold. "God, Cas." He wipes away the tears of laughter from his face and Castiel watches, achingly fond of him. "I've missed you," Dean says, and it's flippant, said the way you'd mention missing a favorite television show or something. But then he turns to look at Cas and his eyes go wide, remembering what he will miss again soon. Castiel feels his pained stare like a sword in his side. Dean's gaze tracks across his face as if memorizing a new road-map.

"Can—?" Dean clears his throat. "Can you ask the meat-suit, what's her name—?"

"Vera."

"Can you ask Vera if this is okay?" Dean slowly closes his hand over Cas's, takes it in his, raises it, shaking, to brush against his own face. "I just— Ask her, will you?"

"Vera?" Castiel questions the air, his voice torn.

Vera suddenly feels very small and petty. _Yeah, of course. It's fine._

Cas nods, and Dean presses their hands to his cheek even harder. His face is hot, and his breath comes in quick gasps.

"I messed up, Cas," Dean whispers. "I've done nothing but fuck things up since the moment you left, and I got no idea how to fix them. Bobby's dead, Sam doesn't trust me half the time, and when I try to sleep— God, sometimes I miss you so much—" His lips kiss the very tips of Castiel's fingers, desperate.

"Dean." Cas's hand gentles on Dean's jaw, his new hands so small, so soft against the prickle of Dean's stubble. He wishes he could leave this body and cocoon Dean in his purest grace, as he had when they first met. He wishes he could stay by Dean's side at the end of the long war and be at peace with him. He wishes for so many things. None of them possible.

"Excuse me," he says, standing quickly, tearing his hand away and cradling it against his chest. "I—I need a moment." And Castiel races to the small motel bathroom and slams the door behind him.

 _Whoa, what's wrong?_ Vera asks. _We were finally getting somewhere._

"Are you so completely thoughtless?" Cas hisses, staring at his borrowed face in the mirror. "Can you not see that this is a thousand times worse? If Dean didn't know tomorrow was my last day, he would never be so—"

 _So honest? It's called closure, Cas. You both deserve some._

"And yet I am trapped in this body, which cannot offer him the slightest comfort!" Cas slams a hand on the laminate counter top, cracking the plastic. "We finally, finally can tell each other what lies in our hearts. And for what? To spend a night sitting next to each other, my hand on his face, to feel his tears and his pain, unable to hold him, unable to kiss him, unable to _love_ him? Because I do love him, Vera. I loved him to the point of insanity, and now I will go mad again with this."

Cas does not need to breathe, and yet his panting gasps are the only sound in the tiny bathroom for a long time.

 _I—I'm such a bitch_ , Vera says. She reaches out in Castiel's mind, a tentative apology. _I guess I just thought it would be easier this way._

"It is not," Cas grits out, staring into the mirror.

 _Well._ Castiel can feel the soul of his vessel vacillating between her warring emotions. _This is probably the most unfair cockblock in history, isn't it? I mean, you only have tonight. It's not fair of me to stop you._

Castiel shakes his head, smoothing long strands of hair away from his red face. "We have an agreement, as you've pointed out. I cannot ask you for anything beyond that."

 _You don't have to ask. I give my permission._

Deep blue eyes meet themselves in the mirror's reflection. "Truly?"

 _Yeah. Tomorrow we might both be dead anyway. May as well._

Castiel swallows, his voice tight. "You do me a great kindness with this, Vera."

 _Don't mention it._

"There must be something I can do for you in return." Cas thinks. "I believe I can fly to Arizona and be back here in less than five minutes. If you wish it."

 _Arizona? Y-you'll let me see my dad?_

Castiel smiles gently. "Yes. And I will free his mind from the disease. It is the least I can do."

 _He'll be back to normal? Oh my god._

"Not god. Just an angel," Cas says, and releases his wings.

Castiel returns almost ten minutes later; it had been difficult to cut Vera's visit with her father so short, and perhaps they'd left the man confused, but his mind was clear.

 _Thank you, Castiel._ Inside, Vera's voice is joyful. _Thank you._

The bathroom door is open. Cas pushes through it to find Dean standing by the window with his head in his hands. He looks up at the sound of the door hinges squeaking.

"Cas? You left."

"Yes, briefly. There was a favor I needed to do," he says.

Dean does not look happy. "Almost thought you wouldn't come back."

Castiel stands before him, looking up into that beloved face. "I—" He wants to be able to say he will always return, but he knows that is not true. He looks down at the faded motel carpet. "I am sorry for putting you through this. All of this."

Dean rearranges his face into something he thinks is less vulnerable. "Water under the bridge." He moves toward the bed, shrugging. "We should get some rest. Big day tomorrow."

Cas stops him him a hand to his elbow, gentle but insistent. He slips his soft palm up Dean's arm until his fingertips raise to brush against Dean's cheek. He says Dean's name, only a whisper.

Dean's eyes fall closed. "I feel like I should say something," he murmurs. "But fuck if I know what it is."

 _Now would be a good time to tell him_ , Vera supplies.

Castiel agrees. "I love you," he says, "so very much."

Dean blinks down at him, wetness on the tips of his long eyelashes. "You have," he breathes, "the most terrible timing." He raises a hand to Castiel's foreign face, tracing the unfamiliar cheekbone. "I can't even kiss you." His voice breaks at the end.

"Yes you can," Cas says. "Vera will allow it."

Dean's face transforms, his mouth forming a small O of surprise. "Seriously? She's cool with it?"

"She has given me leave to treat this body as my own for tonight." Cas's eyes dart away, suddenly uneasy. "Though we do not have to—"

And Dean is kissing Cas before he can even finish the thought. They kiss like they are pouring something into each other, a honeyed liquid they need to share. Dean's hands are so big on Castiel, his rough palms cradling that borrowed jaw, that slim neck. It shakes them both, knowing the truth at last: Castiel loves Dean, and Dean loves Castiel, and nothing can change that fact, not hell, not monsters, and not themselves.

"This is for you," Dean gasps as he pulls away at last. His hands rove Cas's arms, mapping Vera's motorcycle jacket. "It's you, Cas, okay? Not the body you showed up in. I mean, it's hot, don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining at _all_ , but—" He licks his lips. "Is Vera still listening?"

 _Tell him I'm stuffing my fingers in my ears and going la-la-la-la-la until this is over._

Cas smiles. "She wants to give us privacy, though it is hard for her to ignore us completely."

"And she's fine with—you know—us rounding home base?"

Castiel is confused by the phrase, but Vera seems to understand.

 _Yeah, that's okay. Just make sure he has protection._

"Protection?" Cas frowns. "Dean always carries his weapons with him, if that's what you're referring to. But I don't know how that's relevant."

 _Oh, for fuck's sake._

Dean's face breaks into a wide grin. "Are you serious? Is this seriously happening?"

"What?" Cas screws his lips into a scowl.

"She's talking about condoms, Cas!" Dean laughs.

"Oh." Cas relaxes. "Well, she need not be concerned. I told her, this body is resistant to change and immune to disease while I occupy it."

 _You're sure? This is my body we're talking about._

"I am sure, Vera."

Dean nods, following the split-in-half conversation fairly well. The smile lingers on his mouth as he unzips Vera's jacket and slides it from Cas's shoulders, lets it fall to the floor in a heap. "Okay, then. Will you tell her I said thanks for this?"

"She can hear you, Dean. She knows."

Vera sends a feeling of assent to Cas, then hunkers down as far back as she can in their shared mind, doing her best to be unobtrusive. Dean kisses Cas again, slow this time, taking his time to fit his mouth against Cas's again and again. He places his hands on Cas's hips and walks them backwards, never breaking the kiss, until the backs of Castiel's knees connect with the bed furthest from the door.

Cas backs away, his fingers fumbling with the decorative sash on Vera's yellow shirt, huffing in frustration until Dean steps forward and helps him work the blouse over his head. Vera's bra is black satin, and Dean stares at it for a moment before Cas moves to unbutton Dean's checked flannel shirt. He slips it off Dean's broad shoulders, leaving him in his thin white undershirt, his arms bare and burnished in the low lamplight.

Castiel bites his lip at the sight of the scar on Dean's shoulder, now a mere smudge of pink flesh.

I don't know what I'm doing, he realizes in a panic. What am I doing?

 _Hey, don't freak out, Cas. Just do what feels natural_ , Vera assures him.

None of this is natural to me, he thinks. I'm going to be such a disappointment to Dean.

 _You won't. Talk to him. It will help with the nerves._

Dean kisses Cas while undoing the bra clasp between his shoulder blades. The garment falls away, leaving Castiel's breasts bare to his gaze. Cas looks down as well, following Dean's eyes.

"To me, this body is not so different from my last vessel," Castiel says softly. He brings his hands up and cups his breasts, tentatively at first, then kneading them gently with his slim fingers. "There are two legs, two arms, a heart and lungs, just as before. But I know, to you, this is very strange, seeing me like this." He runs his hands down his naked chest to the swell of his hipbones.

Dean swallows hard, posture forcibly relaxed. "Yeah, it's weird. But it was weird when you were a guy, too. My head was all fucked up from it." He smiles, a joke at his own expense. "Seems pretty stupid now, to be hung up on something like that. After all we've been through."

Cas sits on the edge of the mattress, kicking off his shoes and socks, wriggling out of his pants. Dean watches, his eyes growing wide at the sight of the aqua panties Cas is left wearing. Cas reaches out for Dean's belt buckle, tugging him closer with a finger hooked in the metal shield.

"After all we've been through," Cas murmurs, thoughtful, "kiss me again."

Dean does, drinking him in while divesting himself of the rest of his clothes. He places one knee at a time on the bed, hemming in Cas, covering him with his warm body. The scent of cigarette smoke from countless bars clings to him, but underneath is the smell of his skin, which Cas remembers so well. They kiss until Cas is dizzy from it. Dean's fingers hook into the delicate waistband of the aqua panties, and he slides them down Cas's legs and off his tiny feet.

Dean breaks the kiss, scraping his stubbled chin across Cas's skin until his mouth closes around a hard, pink nipple. Cas gasps aloud, his hands hovering in the air above Dean's head, wondering what in Heaven he's supposed to be doing while Dean's tongue and lips are doing _that_.

 _Touch him_ , Vera urges. _Just put your hands— Sorry, I don't mean to be a backseat driver here._

No, tell me. Help me please him too, Castiel thinks. His eyes squeeze shut at the overwhelming sensations curving through his borrowed body: Dean's wet mouth, his prickly cheek against the swell of Cas's breasts, his gentle hands on Cas's body, holding him still.

 _Try running your hands down his back. Maybe use your nails a little._

Castiel does as Vera advises, and Dean groans in pleasure, his spine arching toward Cas's touch. "Just like that, Cas," he says against the sweep of his collarbone.

Castiel can feel Dean's body pressed against him from chest to ankle, and every inch is warm and perfect. His cock is hard against Cas's thigh, leaking fluid. Cas feels an answering wetness between his legs. He may be an innocent, but he knows enough about humans to know what goes where during their primal acts. To have Dean inside him in such an unfamiliar way: will he be found lacking?

 _Deep breaths_ , Vera reminds him. _Don't be scared. This is Dean. He knows what he's doing, right?_

Before Cas can even form an answer, Dean reaches down between them and slots his hand between Cas's thighs, the rough pad of his thumb slipping through the slickness to find a nub of flesh that appears to be hardwired to Castiel's nervous system. Cas cries out at the unexpected wave of ecstasy that washes over him, twisting against the scratchy motel sheets like he's possessed.

 _Oh yeah_ , Vera chuckles. _We're going to be just fine._

"What _is_ that?" Cas asks, propping himself up on his elbows to stare down his body at Dean's hand.

"The feminine mystique." Dean winks. "Not looking like such a bad deal after all, huh?"

Castiel's mouth works open and closed, still trying to catch his breath. "I—I would like to touch you too."

Dean doesn't answer, looks like he's biting back all the words in his throat. He takes Cas's hand in his and brings it down to his erect cock, thick and uncut (because when Cas remade him, he made him whole in every way) and beautiful. Cas stares, cradling it experimentally in his palm, getting used to the weight and velvety feel of it.

"Here," Dean breathes, curling his hand around Cas's. "I'll get you started." They touch Dean together, Dean's hand guiding him up and down his weeping cock, showing him where to swipe this thumb across the wet head, letting him pull the foreskin back to reveal the glistening shaft.

"God, yes." Dean sits back on his heels, his hand falling away to let Cas work him alone, his head lolling back in pleasure. Castiel fists him faster, a little more confidently. Dean's cock looks so large in his small, feminine hand. He tries to imagine how it will feel, hot and hard inside of him. He is surprised to find he wants to know immediately.

 _Then let's go, cowboy. Dean's ready._

But— Cas's hand falters and his breath catches. How, he wonders.

Vera sends him a thought, a memory, her body atop a lover, riding him like a wild thing, her hair streaming over her shoulders.

 _Just a suggestion_ , she says.

Castiel steels himself, then grabs Dean by his narrow hips and flips them so their positions are reversed. Dean looks up at him, bewildered at being suddenly flat on his back with Cas above him. Castiel smirks, a small victory thanks to his angelic strength.

"Can we, like this?" Cas asks, his hand falling back to Dean's cock, stroking it carefully.

"Yeah. 'Course." Dean's hands are everywhere, running over his back, his hips, the sensitive sides of his breasts. Dean kisses him. "Whatever you want, Cas."

Though she tries to stay away, Vera cannot help but offer a steadying whisper in Cas's mind. He thanks her when she guides his hands, helping position Dean beneath him to best effect. It's Vera who talks Cas through the slow, strange sink onto Dean's cock, laughing when he shudders, full-body, and bites back all the curses that are floating through his brain.

 _It's good, right?_

"Yes, so good," Cas gasps. Dean's hands hold him close, drawing patterns down the length of his shaking spine.

"Cas—" Dean's hips jerk, and he's even deeper somehow, and they both moan at the feel of it. "God damn, need you so bad."

"I know, I know." Cas is babbling, he realizes it, but he doesn't care. He kisses Dean's heated skin, the tattooed sigil on his chest. "I'm here."

They move together on the creaking bed, slowly at first as Cas gets a handle on the rhythms of human bodies. He rolls his hips, grinding down onto Dean, amazed at the sparking pleasure that runs through him. Then he opens his eyes and looks down at Dean, this impossible, beautiful human, his human. And he is lost all over again.

The emotion is so powerful that Vera can't hide from it. She trembles from it, feeling the residue of Castiel's love-making through the door that separates them.

 _I'm sorry_ , she says, mortified. _I'm trying not to—_

Dean's voice breaks in the air. "I—oh fuck—Cas, I can't—"

"Don't hold back from me," he says, and it's to them both. He sits up, straddling Dean's hips, his spine arched.

The light bulb bursts in the motel lamp. The light from the bathroom fizzles and winks out. Dean groans, his hands reaching up to cup Cas's breasts, his hips pounding up into him.

Cas feels his body becoming light with static pleasure. Something twitches between his shoulder blades, and in the dim half-light streaming in through the window, the shadows of wings unfurl from his back. They spread wide, inky black, laced with an ethereal glow.

"Oh my god." Dean stares up at him, still not stopping the chaotic roll of his hips.

Castiel smiles and bites back his obvious retort. He pulls on Dean's wrists instead, hauling him up to a sitting position, loving the feel of being cradled in his lap. He buries his face against Dean's neck and allows himself this moment, where everything is as he wishes it.

His climax is pleasant, but not nearly as interesting as the look on Dean's face when he loses control at last, gripping Cas's hips and thrusting into him one final time. His mouth is open and red, his eyes green slits that won't leave Cas's face.

"Love you so much," Dean murmurs as they slump, still holding each other, their noses bumping, their lips trailing along over-heated skin. Cas feels the tears on his shoulder as Dean rests his head there. "Cas, you can't—you can't—"

The wings fade away into the night, and Castiel holds his human lover, comforting him with small nonsense noises. Dean's sobs are quiet, terrible in their silence. They stay there for a long time, and Vera does not speak.

Dean pulls back to look down at Cas, his eyes wild. "Can you use me? Can I be your vessel?" he asks.

Castiel's lips part. His heart becomes heavy. "Dean—"

"I was supposed to be Michael's vessel. If it's good enough for an archangel, it should be good enough for you, right? I don't care how, just— You can't leave again, Cas! Not like this. God, not like this."

Cas gently extricates himself from Dean's embrace, their bodies sticky from their joining, and lays him back against the rough sheets. "Dean, you are not of the correct bloodline. I'm sorry, I can't enter you."

"Can't you try?"

"It would destroy us both." Castiel drags his fingertips down Dean's handsome face. "I would rather die than see you harmed again," he whispers.

Dean captures his hand and presses a kiss to his fingertips. "Will you at least stay here tonight? While I sleep?"

"Of course." Cas stretches out on the thin mattress, pressed against Dean's side. "Rest. I will watch over you." He puts two fingers to Dean's forehead.

Dean smiles as his eyes slip closed. "Always do," he mutters. He falls asleep with his face pressed to Cas's shoulder, holding him like he's afraid he'll fly away.

The morning is quiet, the parking lot mist-filled outside the window. Dean wakes slowly, his eyes finding Cas's. They don't speak.

Cas joins Dean in the shower, though he doesn't need to wash himself. The sweat and the fluids have been erased from his borrowed skin. But he runs the sliver of motel soap over Dean's body as if preparing him for some ancient ritual. They kiss against the tile until the water runs cold.

They dress, they pull on boots and purple sneakers. They watch each other in the watery light of morning.

"Cas," Dean says finally, and there's nothing else to say.

Sam knocks on the door a few minutes later. He has coffee and donuts and an industrial-sized drum of borax in the trunk, and if he notices that only one of the motel beds have been slept in, he doesn't mention it.

They don't check out. Force of habit for the Winchesters, a show of over-confidence. They won't be dead tonight, the gesture says. They'll need a place to sleep after they kill the monsters.

The lake is gloomy, wreathed in fog and the color of dishwater. Maybe it had been a picturesque scene once, but perhaps the toxic presence of the Leviathan has changed it. Or maybe it's always looked sort of shitty, Dean wonders aloud.

Castiel stands on the muddy bank, watching the chop and foam of the water under the hand of the cold wind. A shiver runs through him.

"It's here," he says.

"You sure?" Sam squints over the bleak lake.

Cas reaches into his jacket and pulls his blade free; it's forged from his own grace, and appears when he needs it. And now, he needs it.

Dean sees the short sword in Cas's hand and nods. "Yeah, he's sure."

A ripple appears in the middle of the lake, a scrawled circle that widens and widens before it dissipates. Then another follows, and another. A mile down the shoreline, a flock of black birds cry out and move in unison, flapping away to the north.

"Leviathan is rising," Cas says just as the surface breaks. He unsheathes another sword, an earthly one this time, a sharp-edged one that Sam had provided.

Dean hefts his weapon in his hands. "I feel ridiculous," he says.

Sam frowns at the human forms that are rising from the lake. They're men and women, all dressed in black, their hair hanging wet and matted in their faces. "Just aim for the head, Dean," he says.

Dean slams a cartridge loaded with borax solution into his neon orange Super Soaker. "You could have at least spray painted them or something."

"End of the world. Priorities." Sam loads his own lime green water blaster and shrugs.

"Not looking like a douche is a priority," Dean growls just before he sprays the nearest Leviathan in the face. It screams, clawing at its smoking eyes. Dean draws his iron machete from the scabbard strapped to his thigh and slices it clean through the neck. "One down." He looks up at the lake's edge, where dozens and dozens of the things are baring their needlepoint teeth. "A bazillion to go."

They fall into a rhythm, the brothers weakening the Leviathan with the borax before they or Castiel decapitated them. "Do not forget," Castiel calls to them above the sounds of slaughter, "these are mere foot soldiers. We need to kill its heart."

"What's the heart look like?" Dean shouts as he rips his blade through another creature's neck.

"I don't know!" Castiel stabs a Leviathan deep in its gut, tearing his angel sword through the thing's middle. "Just stay alert."

 _Cas, watch out!_ Vera cries, shifting his vision to the right, where one of the creatures is stalking behind Sam. Cas hurls his blade through the air, slicing its head from its shoulders before it can sink its teeth in Sam's arm.

"Thank you, Vera," Cas says as he retrieves the sword with a sickening, bloody sound.

 _No problem._ Despite her bravado, Vera knows Cas can feel her fear. She has never gone into battle before, and the gore and the screams are harrowing on her nerves.

"It will be all right," Cas tells her as he drops another Leviathan. "Remain calm. We are doing well."

"Are you now," a voice booms.

Castiel turns and sees a man stepping from the lake, the brackish water sloughing off him and leaving a perfectly dry, pressed black suit in its wake. The man squints up at the cloudy sky and straightens his coal-colored tie, a manic smile stamped on his familiar face.

 _Oh shit_ , Vera mutters.

"Hello, angel," it says. A blue eye winks. Jimmy Novak's eye.

"You son of a bitch." Dean reloads his makeshift borax gun.

Leviathan swings its crazed eyes toward them, and the foot soldiers back off, regrouping around their center. "I wore my Sunday best," it says, gesturing down Jimmy Novak's body. "Thought it was appropriate. Why, Dean?" It grins widely. "Do you want to tear it off me and get down to business?"

"Dean!" Sam yells in warning, but it's too late. Dean is already charging ahead, machete in hand. Castiel and Sam have no choice but to follow.

The battle rages, each piece of the Leviathan falling under their attacks, but Dean remains focused on the man standing stock-still at the center of the chaos. Leviathan smirks and calls out, "Come on, Winchester. Come kill the first monster."

Dean fells one last creature that stands between him and this false Castiel. "You don't get to wear that face, not on my watch," Dean bites out.

Leviathan opens its mouth and shows its teeth, screeching.

It is powerful, a whirlwind of strength and hunger. It claws at Dean's arm, shredding his shirt sleeve and the skin below.

"Dean!" Castiel shouts, pushing past foot soldiers to reach him.

Dean empties his water gun, dousing the Leviathan's face with the remaining borax. It fizzles and smokes, but the creature just smiles wildly under its peeling skin.

"Tickles," it snarls, its snake-like tongue lashing about Dean's neck.

Castiel grabs the Leviathan from behind, holding one blade to its neck hard enough to break skin, the angel blade pressing into its ribs. "Drop him," Cas orders, but the creature only chuckles and bleeds black blood in a thin line across its neck.

"Those can't kill me, angel. Though you can try, see how far it gets you," it says. Its teeth snap an inch from Dean's nose. "I think I'll eat him slowly. Then I'll see how wings taste."

Castiel looks over the Leviathan's shoulder, catching Dean's green eyes. They're focused in anger, locked on his enemy, but at Cas's stare Dean looks up and meets his gaze.

Vera feels what he's about to do before he speaks. _Cas—?_ Cas thinks of what to say, but he can only manage one thing.

"Close your eyes, Dean," Cas says softly. "Keep them closed no matter what happens."

Dean blinks, slow understanding filtering into his face. His lips part. "Cas, don't—"

"Sam! Shut your eyes!" the angel shouts over the din. "Now!" He leans forward and hisses in Leviathan's ear, "You're coming with me." Then his blue eyes slip closed, a look of serene concentration on his feminine face.

"Coming? Where to—?" The grin drops from Leviathan's lips, and he drops Dean in his panic. "No! You can't!"

"Cas!" Dean shouts, sprawled on the ground, his hand pressed to his wounded arm.

"Goodbye, Dean," Castiel murmurs, and Dean shuts his eyes just in time to avoid the searing white light pouring from Cas's body. There's a wall of heat and blinding light on the other side of his eyelids, and the only sound is the terrified animal wails from Leviathan and the faint rustle of wings.

It lasts maybe a minute, but to Dean it feels like a fucking week. He squeezes his eyes shut and forms Cas's name on his lips over and over.

Then it's over, and Dean blinks his eyes open. Sam is flat on his back a few yards away, shaking his head as if to clear it.

"You okay?" he calls to Dean.

Dean doesn't answer. He staggers to his feet and turns in a circle. The earth is scorched in dark patches. Every single black-suited Leviathan is gone. And so is Cas.

Then he spots a smudge of bright yellow down the dirt path leading away from the lake. "Cas," he tries, but his voice comes out too small. "Cas!" he finally manages and runs to the prone body laying in the grass.

"Hey, hey, it's all right, wake up," Dean says, cradling the head, brushing long strands of dark hair from that face. Huge blue eyes pry themselves open and stare up at him. "Cas! Are you—?"

"Dean," Vera chokes, "I—I'm sorry, it's me, it's just me, Cas isn't here."

Dean stills, going frozen. "Then where is he?" he asks.

Limbo is even colder than Castiel remembered. He drifts, formless and alone. Leviathan is here, somewhere, but limbo is empty, and whatever remained of the creature is gone from Castiel. The thought should bring solace to the angel. But he can only think of the last look he got of Dean Winchester's face.

Is he redeemed, he wonders, or has he brought more pain to the one he swore to protect?

That's the question, isn't it?

Castiel approaches the edge of existence, a star dying in the night sky. He holds that image of Dean in his heart, wanting nothing more than to be thinking of him when the end comes.

Well, Castiel. Is there nothing more for you to want?

The angel is surprised. "Who is there?" he asks, though no sound can be heard here.

Who is always there, child?

"What?" Castiel bends his mind to the question, though the exertion pains him. "I don't understand."

I laugh, long and loud. Because doesn't that sum it up nicely?

Dean sits in the grass, staring out at the lake. Sam has finished binding his brother's arm with bandages from the trunk of the car; he had suggested a trip to the hospital just to be safe, but Dean hasn't budged. He sits and waits, his knees drawn up, his jacket collar turned up against the wind.

Vera steps beside him, wiping the last of the black blood from her face. "How long are you going to stay?" she asks.

"As long as it takes," Dean says in a rough voice.

Vera purses her lips and looks out over the glassy lake. "Mind if I ask what you're waiting for?"

Dean shrugs and plucks a blade of grass from the ground, rolls it between his fingertips. "A reason not to go back." He doesn't specify where, exactly: the car, the motel, the road, life itself, but Vera doesn't push.

She just nods. "Take your time." She trudges back toward the car, where Sam is stashing their gear. He looks up at the sound of her footsteps crunching on the dirt path.

"How is he?" he asks.

Before Vera can answer, there's a rustling of dried leaves from up the hill: two sets of feet moving across the ground. Vera and Sam turn to find an old black man with graying hair and a dark overcoat striding toward them. Holding his hand is a small girl, maybe seven years old, her hair done up in elaborate pigtails. She's wearing a kelly green dress, patent leather Mary Janes, and ruffled socks, the kind kids used to wear for picture day at school.

"Damage control time," Sam mutters under his breath. Then, louder, as he approaches the two, "Excuse me, sir. We're conducting an investigation of the park grounds at this time, and there's a small chance of contamination, so if you could just—"

"Sam Winchester," the old man intones in a deep, rich voice. "At last."

Sam takes a step back, closer to the cache in the car, Vera realizes. "Sorry, do I know you?"

Down the slope, Dean turns at the sound of strange voice, and he rises to his feet at the sight of the interlopers.

"No, you do not," the man answers. "But I believe you've been looking for Him."

Sam blinks, his mouth hanging open.

"Sammy?" Dean jogs up to them, his eyes darting to the old man and little girl distrustfully. "What's going on?"

Sam reaches into his shirt and pull out something on a black cord. It's Dean's old necklace, and it's glowing white-hot. Sam looks up at the old man, dumbfounded.

"Oh my god."

"Wait, you kept—?" Dean stares at the old man too, realization widening his eyes. "Holy—uh—"

"Is that the old God-sniffing necklace?" Vera asks, pointing a finger at Sam's neck. She turns to the black man. "D-does that mean you're _God_?"

"Don't be absurd," the man says. He pats the little girl on her head. "This is the Lord, your God."

They all stare, not unreasonably. The little girl smiles, ebony skin beaming with happiness, before bending to examine a shiny beetle crawling along in the dirt.

Dean is the first to speak. "God is...a little girl?"

"He can take any form He wishes. He chose this one for the occasion," the man answers.

"So that makes you—?" Sam manages.

"The Metatron. The angel who acts as the voice of God." He tugs the little girl's hand gently, and she straightens with a thoughtful frown. "His true voice cannot be heard by human ears, of course."

The little girl is distracted again, this time by a dragonfly trundling by above her head. She claps her hands, delighted.

"Okay." Dean shoves his hands deep in his pockets, nodding as if it all makes sense, which it doesn't. "Great. God showed up. Finally. Um, don't know if you noticed, Metaphor—"

"Metatron."

"Whatever. You're a little late to the party." Dean's voice is cold as steel. "We killed the Leviathan without _His_ help." He stabs a finger toward the little girl, who now seems enraptured with the clouds. "And we stopped the world from ending, oh, another three or four times before that. But God must have been really busy then, too, right?"

"Dean—" Sam says, a warning in his voice. But Dean's only beginning.

"No, Sam, I just want to know! Why is He here now when we could have used an Almighty ass-kicker a few hours, shit, _years_ ago!" Dean shouts, his hands now balled into fists at his sides. He's been directing all this to the Metatron, but now Dean turns to the little girl, whose eyes are still fixed on the sky, and says, "Where the hell were you when we needed you!?"

The child lowers her gaze to Dean and says nothing for a long moment. Then she motions to the angel beside her, and together they approach Vera. The little girl puts her frail hand on Vera's wrist, and Vera finds herself falling to her knees in the soft grass, her gaze fastened to the child's face.

"Vera Hightower," says the Metatron, "you were never called to serve, and yet here you are. You have shown true courage and compassion, and for that, He graces you with His touch."

Vera's eyes widen as a sudden sense of pervading peace flows through her, calming her and holding her in perfect light. She can't describe the sensation except to say, her voice cracking in wonder, "Am I in Heaven?"

"No," Metatron chuckles. "It is His love." He turns to Sam, and the girl moves on to grasp his scarred hand. Sam's knees buckle until he's also eye-to-eye with the God-child.

"Sam Winchester, you have endured countless trials, but your soul remains pure. You never lost your faith in God, and for that, He takes away your burdens," the angel says.

The little girl presses her hand to Sam's palm, and the scar fades away. Sam stares into God's dark eyes.

"Does this mean I won't see Lucifer again?" he asks.

"That is what it means," Metatron says. He folds his hands behind his back and turns to Dean, who is glancing between the angel and God like he's contemplating running for it.

The little girl moves toward him, hand raised in the kind of gesture you see in Vatican paintings, but Dean backs away.

"No." He swallows hard. "I'm good."

"Dean Winchester," Metatron sighs impatiently, "do not be afraid."

"I ain't afraid." Dean nods toward Sam and Vera. "You fixed them up, and that's fantastic, but—God, this Wizard of Oz stuff doesn't change anything."

"But the Lord can release you from pain," Metatron says. The little girl steps forward again, her face eager, but Dean backs off again.

"Maybe I don't want to be released!" Dean shouts. "Maybe I don't want to forget, okay?"

"Dean." The angel shakes his head. "You need to let go of your anger."

"It's _mine_!" Dean roars. "I can do whatever the fuck I want with it!"

The little girl drops her hand, a frown creasing her forehead. She tilts her head in a way that makes Dean's heart clench with memory.

"The Lord wonders what gift He might give you instead," Metatron says. "What would you ask of Him, Dean Winchester?"

Dean licks his lips and stands straighter. "You know," he says to the little girl. "You know exactly what I want. I want you to bring Cas back to me."

The God-child quirks her mouth and turns to regard the Metatron with a shrug of her thin shoulders. The angel nods. "He regrets that this thing you ask cannot be done."

"Wha—?" Dean blinks and clenches his fists. "Why the hell not?"

"It is impossible—" Metatron begins.

"For _God_?" Dean gapes in disbelief. "Even God can't do it?" He shakes his head, a single tear tracking down his cheek. "Fine. All right." He looks up, resolute. "Then can God send me where Cas is?"

Metatron frowns. "Dean, you must understand—"

"Vera said it was a shithole. Where angels go to die? And—and he's all alone there, right? So send me there. Send me and at least this way, Cas won't be alone," Dean says.

"Dean, don't—" Sam pleas, taking a step toward his brother. "Don't do this."

"I'm sorry, Sammy." More tears fall. "I don't want to leave you behind, but it's _Cas_. And I can't—"

The God-child places two fingers between her lips and whistles loud enough to silence everyone. She waits until the humans have stopped holding their ears, then gestures to the Metatron.

"The Lord is trying to tell you, Dean Winchester, that He cannot answer your prayer because it is already done. The angel Castiel has been released from death."

Dean blinks. "I—I don't— What does that mean?"

There's a loud rustling sound coming from the edge of the woods, and Dean turns to see a shape slipping from the trees. It's a human, bare, skinny, and pale, and when it looks up, it looks at Dean with the bluest of eyes.

"Dean," Castiel rasps.

Dean doesn't remember running down the slope, doesn't remember catching Cas up in his arms, staring down at that familiar Jimmy Novak face, and crying with laughter. He doesn't remember who thought to bring the old trench coat from the car and drape it over Cas's bare shoulders. He doesn't remember any of that stuff. He just remembers the first thing they say to each other.

"Oh, thank god," Dean breathes.

"Yes, I already have," Cas returns.

Dean looks up and sees God's bright green dress slipping into the trees, followed by the Metatron, who offers them a solemn nod before he, too, vanishes.

It's the same motel room as last night. Castiel is the only thing that's changed.

Dean unties the trench coat's belt and undoes the big buttons one by one. "We'll have to buy you some clothes," he murmurs. He thinks of Sam and Vera, sharing a room across the hall, probably already splitting a six-pack and talking about their hair or whatever. Maybe they'll help with the wardrobe.

"Once I've rested, I should be able to create whatever I need," Cas says. "I am still an angel, you know."

Dean peels the coat from Cas's shoulders and folds it into a neat square, sets it on top of the dresser. He looks at Cas's naked body in the dim room (the lights still haven't been repaired) and says nothing.

Castiel, for once, is the one that shifts under Dean's stare. "The Lord asked me to name a vessel, and I chose the one you were most familiar with. Perhaps I made the wrong decision."

"No," Dean says softly. "You didn't."

"Could you love this body?" Cas asks. He draws a hand down his bare chest, his well-formed bicep, feeling out its strengths and weaknesses. "Could it please you?"

Dean kisses him, their mouths fitting together perfectly, stubble scratching against stubble. He kisses Cas's lips, his face, his brow, the vulnerable skin under his ear, everything he can. He doesn't dignify Castiel's questions with any other response.

By the time they're under the sheets, Cas has his answer.

Dean mouths along Cas's body, down his sternum to his flat stomach, dipping his tongue in the tiny navel, nipping at a hipbone. Cas's hands are in his hair, tightening with each kiss and lick, and Cas is making noises Dean has never heard before. Helpless, beautiful little noises.

"Dean, I should tell you—" Cas's breath hitches as Dean laps at the seam between his thigh and his hip. "Last night, when we were together, I was so very frightened."

"Huh?" Dean's head pops up. "Of what?" He crawls back up Cas's body until their eyes are level. "Of me?"

"No, of disappointing you. Of failing to please you." Cas hesitates, then bites out. "Vera was in my head, and I asked for her help at...various points."

Dean's mouth drops open. "Uh." He raised his eyebrows. "Kinky."

"And so," Cas continues, flushing, "I no longer have that guidance. I fear I may not live up to your expectations now."

Dean smiles, slow and fond. "Guess what?" he says. "I don't have a fucking clue what I'm doing here either. I mean, you're a _guy_ , and that's a first for me. So we can both be terrible at this and we won't even know."

"Oh." Cas's face blossoms in a glowing grin. "Our lovemaking can be absolutely awful!"

Dean laughs. "Sure can." He kisses Cas again, long and deep. They move against each other in the dark, hot skin against skin, hard erections pressing insistent. Dean curses a little at the chaffing and pulls back.

"Wait a minute." He reaches for the bedside table drawer, hoping there's some hotel hand cream or something to ease the way. Instead, his fingers close around a huge, unopened tube of lubricant that he _knows_ he didn't put there.

Dean casts his eyes skyward and smirks. "Thanks, Big Guy," he says.

"What was that?" Cas looks up at him, hair wild and disheveled in a way that makes Dean love him a little more.

"Nothing, just getting some prayers answered," Dean chuckles and spreads some lube on his hand.

For a long while, they just touch. Dean runs his slick fingers across Cas's cock, behind his balls, around and around his hole. Cas likes it, says so with his moans and shakes and the way he spreads his legs apart for Dean. It should be weird, Dean thinks, doing this to another guy, but when he sees those blue eyes staring down at him, he can't find it in himself to care.

"In me, Dean," Cas pants. "Please, in me."

Dean presses a finger inside, all the way up to his knuckle. Cas is so relaxed, so ready for it, it's so easy to slide it in. Cas presses down, his head thrashing on the pillow. Dean doesn't even move his hand, just stays still and watches Cas fuck himself on it.

"Fucking hell," Dean whispers. He jerks himself with his free hand because he can't help it.

Soon that's not enough, and Castiel is asking for more, so Dean slips another finger in beside the first. But Cas keens in frustration, because that's not enough either.

"More of you," he begs. He thinks of the first time he met Dean, a wild, tarnished soul that he wrapped up inside himself. It seems he is forever taking Dean inside of him, where he can feel him best, pulsing, human, alive.

Dean's cock nudges at him, and Dean is above him, braced on shaking arms, sweat running down his face. Cas loves to think he's controlling himself, because that means soon he won't be able to. He wraps his arms around Dean's neck slams his hips against Dean's, muffling his groan of pleasure against Dean's shoulder. They move, slow and warm, damp with sweat, exchanging small words of love.

"Will I see the wings this time?" Dean asks in a low voice, and Cas smiles.

"They will come," he promises. He kisses Dean again and feels the rustle of feathers moving through the air.

 

 

 

fin


End file.
